


it is most sane and sunly

by witching



Series: love is more [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anxiety, Awkward Conversations, Banter, Comfort, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Heart-to-Heart, Humor, Kissing, Literal Sleeping Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Season/Series 04, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Kisses, Teasing, Tenderness, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23195128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: “This isn’t what I wanted to talk about. Give me idle gossip or give me death.”“I’m in love with you,” Jon blurts out without thinking.There’s a pause, and then Martin simply says, “Christ, Jon, you’re really bad at this.”institute employees on the run and temporarily out of the proverbial woods, what ooey-gooey crimes will they commit? post-159, obligatory scotland safe house fic, pretty much just a lot of tenderness and love and fluff.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: love is more [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1959904
Comments: 30
Kudos: 521





	it is most sane and sunly

_love is less always than to win  
_ _less never than alive  
_ _less bigger than the least begin  
_ _less littler than forgive_

_it is most sane and sunly  
_ _and more it cannot die  
_ _than all the sky which only  
_ _is higher than the sky_

_// e.e. cummings_

* * *

The drive up to Scotland is so quiet as to feel sacred. Even the purring of the car, the rush of the highway, the roar of the wind falls away as Jon winds up the countryside, knuckles white on the steering wheel. It’s a supernatural quiet, an eery quiet, and it scares Jon enough that he listens to the voice that tells him to let it be. It feels as if to break the silence would disappoint or disrupt something much larger than Martin's intermittent attempts at sleep. 

Nothing is more important than Martin getting some well-deserved rest, Jon thinks fiercely. He thinks about the end of the world and all he pictures is a world without Martin, a world where Martin isn’t safe and happy and close.

They’re almost at their destination and the sun is low on the horizon, not setting yet but preparing, when Jon finally manages to relax enough that he can feel his fingers again. It’s not safe, they’re not safe, but there’s a certain kind of calm that settles over them that’s taken a few hours to really sink in for Jon, and now he allows himself to bask in it for a moment. He glances over just as Martin stirs himself awake and blinks at Jon, bleary-eyed and dazed, and the sight makes something ache in his chest.

Jon only barely manages to tear his eyes away from Martin to watch the road, and he huffs out a little laugh at that – how fucking _perfect_ would it be if he got them both killed now, when they’re finally alone together and wrapped in some makeshift semblance of safety? No, he'll do everything in his power now to protect Martin, the way he never could before – the way he never _did_ before, even when he knew he could and should.

The small, soft sound of his disbelieving laugh is like a lighthouse cutting through the fog of quiet, and it startles him slightly. Martin sits up straighter in his peripheral vision, but he goes still again after that. They pass several more long minutes in that heavy, impossible silence before Jon hears a pitiful sniffle and whips his head around to see Martin swiping at his eyes with trembling fingers.

"Martin," he says, his gentle voice sounding far too loud, "what's wrong? Are you –" he cuts himself off before he can ask _Are you okay?_ because of _course_ he isn't, so Jon asks instead, "What can I do?"

"It's fine," Martin tells him, turning his face away. His voice is small and watery, though he tries his best to keep it even. "Look at the road, please."

Jon does as he's told, turns his head obediently to face forward, but doesn't accept Martin's platitude. "It's not fine, Martin, you're crying."

"Yes, I know that," Martin mumbles without much rancor, his tone high and wavering. "It's fine."

"I'm sorry," Jon says, unsure what's going on, floundering for something to make the situation better. 

Martin loses a bit of his composure at that, a sound escaping him halfway between a sob and a laugh, ragged and unconcealable. He bites his lip and swallows hard, shakes his head. “No, don’t be,” he murmurs with a great deal of understanding. “Not your fault.”

A moment passes where Jon is sure anything he says will only make it worse, but he can’t say nothing. “Isn’t it, though?” he mutters half under his breath, ashamed, then takes a deep, sharp breath to quash the self-loathing rising in his throat. It’s selfish, and it’s not what Martin needs, he knows that much. “Just – Martin, please, tell me what I can do to help.”

“You don’t have to…” Martin begins to protest, then sees Jon open his mouth to insist, so he gives in preemptively. Brushes his hair out of his eyes, thinks about the least embarrassing way to ask for what he needs, and soon comes up with: “Can you just, can you talk to me?”

“Talk to you?” Jon asks in a high-pitched voice, rather more incredulous than he should be, given – well, everything. It’s only that he was afraid it was something far worse, and he would readily have done absolutely anything Martin asked of him, and it’s a surprise that this is all Martin needs at the moment. 

“Yeah,” Martin breathes, nodding shakily. “It’s – it’s been really, erm, quiet?”

That hits Jon hard, makes it difficult for him to breathe for a few moments as he thinks about how carefully he’s been crafting the silence, how he thought he was doing something good for Martin. "Oh," he says lamely before adding as an afterthought, "you mean the car ride?"

Martin shakes his head minutely, curls bouncing as he chews at his lip again. "No, the…" he hesitates, squeezes his eyes shut. "All of it. Without you, without – I mean, anyone. Just… the, the loneliness? I’ve been by myself a lot – a _lot,_ and it's been so, so quiet, and I don't want – I don't want any more quiet, Jon, I want to _talk_ to you."

Jon swallows, blinks back the distant sting of tears behind his eyes, the guilt of the past few months, and the several years before that, threatening to overwhelm him. He can be what Martin needs, right now, and that’s what matters. “What do you want to talk about?” he asks, voice a bit thick.

“Anything, just – just talk to me,” Martin requests. He looks at Jon with misty eyes, a shaky smile stretching his chapped lips. “Tell me something normal. Like you would if it was two years ago and I asked how your weekend was.”

“Well, I haven’t exactly been on any riveting dates lately,” Jon says dryly, quirking an eyebrow at him. Humor is good, right? He thinks humor is good for this.

“Nor back then,” Martin retorts easily with a small laugh. “What have you been up to? I mean, when you weren’t concerned with the apocalypse?”

“Any time I’ve not been concerned with the apocalypse,” Jon answers without missing a beat, “has been spent worrying about you.” The statement is difficult, something choked and unearthed from the depths of him, and he has trouble keeping his tone even, but it’s the plain truth, and that’s what Martin deserves.

A small sound of distress leaves Martin before he jumps to tell him, “Oh, Jon, you didn’t have to –”

Jon cuts him off before he can start down the inevitable road of downplaying his own feelings, his own needs, like he always does. Even now, after everything they’ve been through, he has that immediate reflex to be always the carer, never the cared for, and Jon simply can’t abide it at the moment. “I did, Martin. I _do,”_ he corrects after a moment of thought. “I let you down, I left you alone. None of this would have happened if I had just… done better from the start.”

“That’s not – you weren’t – we didn’t even –,” Martin splutters through a series of half-protests, trying to assuage Jon’s guilt without lying to him, but it’s impossible. He can’t say it didn’t have anything to do with Jon, he can’t say Jon didn’t know how he felt, he can’t say it’s okay. Instead, he sets his jaw and steels his nerves and says, “This isn’t what I wanted to talk about. Give me idle gossip or give me death.”

“I’m in love with you,” Jon blurts out without thinking.

There’s a pause, and then Martin simply says, “Christ, Jon, you’re _really_ bad at this.”

“Sorry,” Jon murmurs bashfully, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. “Sorry, I’ll – I’ll –” he wants to say _I’ll shut up now,_ but that’s the opposite of helpful, so he repeats, “I’m sorry.”

Martin takes a deep breath, shoots him a tired little smile and an understanding look with his warm eyes. “No, it’s fine, it’s… I’m… I just haven't had a lot of – like, _normal_ human contact recently,” he mumbles.

For a moment, Jon still can't think of anything to say except _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,_ doesn’t think he’ll have anything else to say for a hundred years at least, except maybe _I love you, I love you, I love you._ He shakes his head gently, lifts a hand to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. “Yeah,” he says plainly. “Yeah, I know how that is.” 

They drive in silence for another half a minute before Jon can’t stand it anymore. He feels like he’s drowning in the quiet now, doesn’t know how he could have thought it peaceful before, and piled on top of it is the guilt and the care and the love that he feels for Martin, threatening to overflow from him, so he has to say something. Unfortunately, he still is rather useless in that area, so he clears his throat and ventures in the most casual tone he’s capable of: “So, how have things been?”

He gets a loud guffaw in response to that, the first joyous sound he’s heard from Martin in a long, long time, and he cracks a genuine smile of his own, also for the first time in a long time. Martin laughs himself breathless while Jon listens, rendered breathless himself by the sheer beauty of the noise, risking a sidelong glance every few seconds to catch the precious sight of Martin’s glee. Tears gather in the corners of his eyes, his cheeks round and glowing, flushed dark and gorgeous, and once again Jon has to force himself to watch the road.

Eventually, Martin pulls in a deep inhale, wipes his eyes, breathes a contented little sigh. “Things have been great, Jon,” he says with as much faux-jolliness as he can possibly inject into it, “thanks for asking.”

Jon's heart nearly explodes at the sound of Martin's voice full of such lighthearted amusement. He talks himself down from another attempted profession of feelings, choosing instead to ask suddenly, “Do me a favor? Will you check how much farther we’ve got to go?”

Without question, Martin reaches to grab Jon’s phone from where it rests between them on the center console. He thinks nothing of tapping the screen to life, nor of casually asking Jon for his passcode, until he sees Jon’s reaction to the request, his jaw tensed and his lips pressed together in a thin line. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Martin says in a rush. “It’s just – well, I can’t see the map without unlocking your phone, so…”

“No, it’s alright,” Jon says through gritted teeth, “I just forgot about that bit. I’ll tell you, just – please don’t laugh at me.”

“Laugh?” Martin turns to him, his brow adorably furrowed. “Why would I laugh?”

“It’s been a – a really hard time, okay?” Jon says, halfway between defensive and embarrassed. “These past few months, I mean.”

It starts to dawn on Martin that Jon is properly anxious about this, for some reason, and a heady wave of protectiveness surges through him. “I won’t laugh, Jon. I promise.”

Jon nods his head, eyes locked forward on the road, and mutters, “Zerofivezerofoureightseven.”

“Er – I didn’t catch that,” Martin says, tapping what he thought he heard into the screen, which returns an INCORRECT PASSCODE message. “Louder and slower, please.”

“Zero. Five. Zero. Four. Eight. Seven.”

Martin enters the numbers as Jon says them, not wanting to forget and put Jon through the trouble of having to tell him again. Once he’s unlocked the phone, he realizes what he's just typed, pauses, pulls up short. “Jon, that’s –”

“Yes, I know,” Jon interrupts, his face hot enough that he thinks Martin can probably feel the humiliation rolling off of him in waves. “I just – I had to change it because Basira figured out my old one, and it was really – I was feeling lonely.”

“Oh,” Martin says quietly, staring down at the phone screen, the little blue dot of the car moving steadily north, until his vision starts to blur. He blinks a few times, hoping for something to alleviate his guilt, but all he achieves is bringing the map into focus enough to read the estimated time of arrival. “We should be there in about fifteen minutes,” he mumbles lamely.

Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Jon nods again. “Okay,” he says under his breath, “alright. I can manage that.”

Martin's eyebrows draw together in concern as he reaches to blanket Jon's left hand with his right. "Manage?” he echoes nervously, squeezing Jon’s bony hand in his own plump fingers. “Jon, are you alright? You need me to drive the rest of the way?"

"No, no, it's fine," Jon assures him with a small smile, a tight expression that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "I'm impatient, is all." 

"It is a long drive," Martin agrees in a thoughtful, cautious tone, "though there's not much worth looking forward to, is there?"

"Maybe not," Jon mutters under his breath, "we'll see."

Martin pauses for a long moment to think about what Jon's said before chirping brightly, "Hm. Cryptic."

Flushing darker, his cheeks burning, Jon shakes his head and blows out a dismissive breath. "It's nothing, don't worry about it," he says softly, and then straightens his back and changes the subject expertly, if unsubtly. "You know Georgie and Melanie are dating?"

"Can't say I'm surprised, really," says Martin after a short moment of consideration. “I don’t really know Georgie, but – I mean, knowing that you – well, Melanie seems about as far from you as she could swing.”

“Is that a good thing?” Jon laughs.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Martin assures him quickly.

They somehow accomplish the miraculous feat of occupying the rest of the drive with irrelevant chatter about their friends' romantic escapades. It's the easiest conversation they've had in months, possibly over a year if Jon's coma factors in. For fifteen minutes, they laugh and catch up and ask and answer questions, and it’s almost as if nothing has happened to them. It’s almost just like it used to be. 

Then again, Jon has to remind himself, the way it used to be would never put them on a trip like this, alone together. The man he used to be would never allow it, and he certainly would never revel in the opportunity to spend time with Martin and talk with him. Things have changed, and regardless of the past few months and the past few days and the need for a safe house, Jon is almost positive they’ve changed for the better, on the whole.

* * *

They don't have much with them, so it doesn't take very long to get unpacked. They put away clothes and toiletries, divvy up cabinet space, find the outlets. Jon showers while Martin eats something, then Martin showers while Jon eats something, and then they find themselves sitting on the bedroom floor, physically and emotionally drained. 

"Sure you don't mind?" Martin asks nervously, leaning back against the bed they've agreed to share. "I can take the sofa."

"No, I don't mind," Jon replies with a long-suffering sigh, as he’s reassured Martin to this end at least a dozen times by now. He lowers his voice almost to an aside to mutter, “I _really_ don’t mind.”

Martin's cheeks flush dark and he shifts where he sits, staring at a point on the floor between the two of them. "Oh," he whispers hoarsely, barely a sound at all, "right."

When he gets no response for several seconds, Martin chances a look up to see Jon studying his face with an inscrutable expression. He's biting his lower lip, worrying at it with his teeth, but his mouth almost curves up at the corners. His dark eyes are curious and unblinking but not displeased, or at least not obviously so.

The silence doesn't last very long before Jon inhales abruptly as if preparing for something, steeples his fingers in front of his face and asks, "Martin, did you – did you _forget_ about my confession of love?"

"No! I just – I mean –," Martin sputters through a few half-phrases, riding the line between apologetic and defensive. "It was _very_ ill-timed!" he exclaims eventually, voice high and indignant. "There was a lot going on!"

"A lot going on," Jon echoes sardonically, though he's definitely smiling now. "We were alone on a quiet car ride through the Scottish countryside. I rather thought I'd picked a good time to say it.”

Martin sputters and stammers helplessly, wringing his hands in his lap, avoiding Jon's gaze. "Listen – okay, maybe there wasn’t much going on. But," he raises a hand in objection, "it came out of _nowhere,_ Jon, and I was on a whole different plane of thought. You caught me off guard, is all."

Chuckling light and cheerful under his breath, Jon waves him down, a surrendering gesture. "Alright, alright, I'll give you that. I'm sorry."

And now it's Martin's turn to laugh, loud and bright and just a little bitter. "Don't _apologize,"_ he says incredulously, as if Jon has just said something very stupid and mildly amusing. "I mean, I'm glad you said it. And… I love you, too. But you – you knew that."

"Maybe," Jon agrees, breezy tone belying the swelling fondness in his chest, "but it's still good to hear. I was beginning to feel a bit, er. Exposed."

"Why, because you said you loved me and you told me your phone password and I hadn't given up any sensitive information in return?" Martin's tone is teasing but warm as he looks intently at Jon's face, studying his features and his reactions.

At the mention of his phone, Jon groans miserably. "Fuck, that's embarrassing."

Shifting from his position to sit next to Jon against the wall, Martin shoots him an understanding smile and reaches tentatively for his hand. "Hey," he murmurs, bumping his shoulder against Jon's and drawing his gaze up to meet his eyes. "I think it's sweet," he soothes as he twines their fingers together and squeezes Jon's hand reassuringly, "that you thought of me. It's good to know that you – that you missed me as much as I missed you."

Apparently unconvinced, or not entirely certain, Jon looks at him like he hung the moon, but also like he's not quite sure the moon is real. He looks like he might say something in protest, but Martin inhales sharply and adds, "I'm really flattered – I mean, surprised, but flattered – that you, erm, remembered my birthday."

For the first time in the years they've known each other, Jon has a look that can only be described as bashful. His cheeks flush dark as he turns his face away from Martin, pressing his lips together to stifle something that might become a smile or a shameful grimace.

"I suppose," he says, slow and muffled by an arm slung across the lower half of his face, "that I've been paying attention for longer than I'd have admitted. Er, before."

Martin brings his free hand to Jon’s cheek and gently guides him to turn back to face him. Jon doesn’t resist the motion, looks up at Martin with a doleful look in his wide, dark eyes, softening at the sight of his warm smile and round cheeks.

Then Martin moves in, close enough that Jon can taste him in the air, and presses his lips to Jon’s forehead. He lingers there for a long moment, thumb sweeping gently over Jon’s cheekbone, and pulls back just a fraction of an inch to whisper, “Thank you for paying attention.”

A beat passes where there’s nothing to be heard but the twin rhythms of their heartbeats, the soft puff of their breathing. Jon’s eyes are closed as he leans in, pushing his cheek against Martin’s palm and his body against Martin’s torso, taking in a deep breath and nuzzling into his chest. He waits for Martin to shift, to move his hand from Jon’s face to the back of his head to hold him close, and then releases the breath in an exhausted, blissful sigh.

“Martin,” he murmurs eventually, voice cloud-soft and sincere. “Thank you for waiting.”

The quiet returns, and Jon feels the movement of Martin’s chin against his hair as he gives a soft little half-nod in reply. They sit for a while, holding each other, breathing in sync and taking turns stroking each other's hair, neck, cheeks. There's no match for the relief of these moments of peace between them, no experience that could possibly hold a candle to the closeness and the reverence of this embrace.

Except, of course, when Martin yawns so wide that Jon fears his jaw may fall off. 

"Are you tired?" Jon asks redundantly, soft and devoid of compulsion. "It's been a long day – a long… long while, actually. When was the last time you slept well?"

Martin shakes his head, lifts his hands to rub idly at his eyes. "S'fine, m'fine," he mumbles as he moves to wrap Jon in his arms again.

Jon allows this, leaning into his embrace, powerless against the warmth and the comfort of him. He places a tentative kiss on Martin's neck, just a moment's touch of lips on skin, before responding. "We don't have to stop doing this," he points out, tightening his arms around Martin's middle for emphasis. "It's just, it’ll probably be more comfortable in bed than sitting on the floor."

With a drawn-out groan, Martin extricates himself from Jon and stands, extending a hand to help Jon up as well. Jon grunts with the effort of pulling himself up using Martin’s hand as leverage, slumping against Martin’s chest as soon as he’s on his feet. Rubbing a hand down the center of Jon’s spine, Martin huffs out a soft chuckle before pulling away and placing his hands on Jon’s shoulders, a familiar and reassuring weight.

There’s a long, stretched-out moment where anything could happen. Bogged down with possibilities, unable to make a decision and afraid to do the wrong thing, both men stall in their tracks, just looking at each other.

“I, erm,” Jon finally speaks up in a hoarse little murmur, then clears his throat and takes a small step backward. “I’m going to go – er, brush my teeth.”

“Right.” Martin nods, watches him go into the bathroom, and stares at the closed door for two minutes.

When Jon comes out, he offers up a small smile, gestures to the available bathroom behind him, makes his way to the dresser to find pajamas. Martin shuffles his feet all the way to the bathroom to brush his own teeth, his mind going a mile a minute. It’s all getting a bit real now, is the thing, now that he’s thinking about going to sleep together in a bed with Jon, now that he’s got the taste of _Fresh and Clean Radiant Winter Mint_ in his mouth and he’s thinking about that taste in _Jon’s_ mouth –

Damn. That’s enough to make Martin sputter and forget how to breathe for a moment. He spits out the toothpaste, rinses his toothbrush, does his level best to compose himself before opening the door and going back to the bedroom. Takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and counts to ten. Gives himself a short little pep talk, reminds himself that Jon loves him, as incredible as it still may seem, and that his – his _anxiety_ is not reason enough to _ruin_ this. So he pulls the door open with more confidence than he really feels, takes one look at Jon standing by the bed, and freezes. 

Because Jon is shirtless, tying the drawstring on his pajama bottoms, facing the wall. Martin can see every inch of his beautiful back: a whole history's worth of scars, the outline of his ribs, the ripple of what little muscle he has when he moves. 

The shock doesn't fade. Martin just keeps staring while Jon fiddles with a knot in the string, his hands shaking, until eventually he gets it. Then he turns to grab his shirt from the bed, catches sight of Martin gaping in the doorway, and promptly drops both his shirt and his jaw.

"Oh shit, sorry," Martin stammers, like the sight of Jon's face has broken the dam that was keeping him from moving or speaking. "I'm sorry, Jon, I – I should have said something, I…"

He trails off with the realization the Jon hasn't moved, either. In fact, Jon is standing there looking just as dumbfounded as Martin feels. His lip quivers slightly, like he wants to say something, so Martin waits for a long, terrible moment before he pipes up again, a meek, uncertain thing: "...Jon?"

And then Jon takes a step forward, as if without a choice. It’s slow and uncoordinated, but he moves with undeniable purpose across the room, eyes fixed on Martin's face, coming to a stop only when he's standing so close their chests almost touch.

At this distance, the silence rings out louder than ever. Before either of them can compose themselves enough to form words, Jon lifts his hand in slow motion and curls his fingers against Martin's jaw. It's clear now that he's not just staring at Martin's face; he's staring _very_ intently at Martin's lips. 

When Jon's thumb comes up to ever so gently swipe at the corner of his mouth, Martin flinches with his entire body, snapping him out of his trance-like state and startling Jon like a skittish horse. Instantly, his hand shoots up to grab Jon's wrist, hold his palm in place against Martin's cheek, keep him from pulling away.

"Sorry," Martin mutters with a minute shake of his head. "Sorry, I just – didn't mean to m-move like that, like I was – er, afraid of you, or something, I just – I wasn't expecting you to – to do whatever you just did."

 _"I'm_ sorry," Jon whispers, trying to reassure him, pressing his fingers against Martin's cheek to compensate for his initial reflex to move away. "You just… you had a bit of – toothpaste."

Martin definitely _tries_ to say "Oh," but it comes out as a half-squeak of a breath, which is quickly stifled by Jon's lips on his. There's a moment's surprise, which is odd considering Martin's not even entirely sure that he isn’t the one who leaned in first, then his mouth catches up with his brain to return the kiss. His free hand gravitates to the back of Jon's head, fingers twisting into his thick hair, and he moves the other hand from where it circles Jon's wrist to cup his cheek.

A full second later, as his fingers graze over the pocked scars on Jon’s face, Martin registers the situation and fully realizes that he's _kissing Jon._ He lets out a soft whimper at the thought and parts his lips slightly, not as a means to anything, just by virtue of his mouth moving to match the noise leaving him. 

Jon seizes the opportunity regardless, slipping his tongue into Martin's mouth with a frenzied sort of clumsiness, the kind of disorder that comes not from inexperience, but from the overwhelming desire to do everything at once. He can't do everything at once, but he certainly puts in a heroic effort. 

His tongue traces the line of Martin's teeth, then slides against the roof of his mouth, then moves to taste his lips. With a hand on either side of Martin's face, extending up on tiptoes for better access, Jon breathes heavily through his nose and kisses Martin for all he's worth. He alternates between exploring Martin's mouth with his tongue, sucking Martin's tongue into his mouth, orchestrating the movement of his lips against Martin's.

Martin reciprocates, just as enthusiastic, though a bit less active a player. He finds himself dedicating more energy to cataloguing every sound that Jon makes, the weak little groans and the pleased hums and the sharp, desperate inhales, internalizing it all so he won't forget a single detail.

What finally does Martin in is Jon nipping at his lower lip. A small thing, considering, but it’s surprising and bold and incredibly hot and he can't help but moan into Jon's open mouth, ardent and wanting. Jon groans quietly in reply, but Martin's already pulling back, drawing up to his full height and using his light hold on Jon's face to keep him from chasing the kiss as he retreats.

The regret hits immediately, as soon as he sees Jon pouting up at him with his lips swollen and kiss-slick. Jon's hands slip from his cheeks to settle on his shoulders, and he quirks his head at an angle and practically _whines,_ "Why did you stop?"

Drawing on his immense reserves of patience and willpower, Martin resists the overwhelming urge to keep kissing Jon until their lips fall off or they die of dehydration. He is so full of love in this moment, but he can’t let himself get carried away and do something stupid, so he sucks a breath in through his teeth and mutters shamefully, “I went too far.”

“What do you mean?” Jon gives him the look of a man desperately confused, utterly lost, mildly hurt, incredibly fond, and thoroughly debauched.

“I didn’t mean to – I don’t want to make you uncomfortable," Martin answers, chewing nervously on his lip, a deep, guilty wrinkle between his brows. "I mean, we – we haven’t even talked about it.”

Jon frowns and does some calculations on that for a long moment, then straightens his back and smooths out his expression like he’s made a decision. “I don’t expect anything from you that you’re not ready to do," he says, slow and diplomatic, calm and rational, “but I _was_ having fun kissing you.”

Pulling up short, Martin presses his lips together to suppress a giddy smile. Something about hearing Jon say the words is almost more rapturous than the kissing itself – Martin suspects it has something to do with Jon’s voice and the fact that he’s talking about kissing him like it’s not a big deal. “Really?” he squeaks, because it _is_ a big deal, it’s a _very_ big deal.

“Yeah. Been wanting to do that for a while," Jon murmurs, his face burning. "I could stand to repeat it.”

“Oh," Martin breathes in surprise. "I mean, er, me too.”

“Come to bed with me?” Jon asks, and promptly realizes how it sounds, shakes his head and clarifies in a breathless rush. “Not – not like that. Just – lie with me and – and we can keep kissing and you can keep holding me and it’ll be perfect.”

Martin nods his head, offers him a reassuring smile; he doesn’t need the explanation to understand Jon’s meaning. While Jon stumbles over his words, Martin turns to open a dresser drawer and rummages through its sparse contents for a second, finds what he’s looking for and begins changing his clothes on the spot. He figures he owes Jon some trust with his vulnerability, a little bit of reciprocity, and it’s not as if he has to dig deep to find that trust. Trusting Jon is as easy as breathing. And the hot, heavy embarrassment pooling in his gut – well, that’s also pretty much reflexive, almost a constant in his life.

“It sounds perfect,” he sighs dreamily when Jon stops babbling, continuing the conversation as if this is all quite normal and not at all mortifying for him.

For a long moment, Jon is silent, watching Martin strip to his boxers without hesitation. His mouth is dry, suddenly. He blinks several times, swallows thickly, and replies in a ragged voice, “Like a fairytale.”

Martin turns back to face him, eyes sparkling at the sentiment, and asks conversationally, "Are you going to put on a shirt?"

Thrown by the question, Jon frowns and looks down at his own torso, his cheeks heating up rapidly as he rather abruptly remembers how to feel embarrassed. "Do you want me to?" he asks, wondering how long Martin has waited to say something about it, whether he’s been thinking for the past several minutes about how weird it is that Jon isn’t wearing a shirt.

"No!” Martin answers too quickly and far too fiercely. “I mean. Not – not that I want you to _not,_ but also I don't want… I want you to do what you want to do,” he concludes, frustrated and kicking himself for his awkwardness. After a second’s thought, he adds sheepishly, "I usually don’t, myself. Wear a shirt, that is. So, erm."

"Okay,” Jon answers without missing a beat, relief flooding him in place of his insecurity, though he crosses his arms tight across his chest before continuing. “Well – if it's not, er, uncomfortable for you, I do rather appreciate…"

Martin cocks his head to the side expectantly when Jon hesitates long enough that he fears he may not finish the thought without prompting. "What, Jon?"

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jon grits his teeth and answers as quickly and as honestly as if he had been compelled. It’s something of an experiment for him, to pull this truth out from his own depths the way he has so often done to others in the past. "I like the way your skin feels on my skin,” he mutters, not ashamed but sheepish.

"Oh,” says Martin simply.

"I'm sorry, that was a weird thing to say, I'm being weird,” Jon starts to babble, shaking his head as the flames under his skin spread from his face down to his chest. “I'll put a shirt on, it's no problem –"

"Jon. Jon, it's fine,” Martin says softly, and then louder because Jon isn’t listening to him. When Jon cuts off and looks up at him, eyes wide and questioning, biting his lip, Martin reassures him, “It's really fine. I… I like it, too."

Jon smiles, his brow still furrowed and uncertain. "Yeah?"

Returning the smile effortlessly, Martin nods and murmurs a soft “Yes,” takes Jon’s hand and pulls him toward the bed. Jon follows willingly, lets Martin get on the bed and climbs on after him. It takes a minute for the two of them to get situated, Martin leaning back with Jon half on top of him, head tucked under his chin, arms around Martin’s neck as the other man’s large hands press into the small of his back, holding him close and tight. 

Truly content for the first time in as long as he can remember, Jon nuzzles his face against Martin’s neck, breathes him in and listens to his heartbeat. It’s steady and sturdy and warm, just like Martin always has been. Jon can’t resist pressing a kiss to the dip at the base of Martin’s throat, smiling when he hears the sharp intake of breath from above.

“I _did_ say we could keep kissing,” Jon whispers, stretching up to pepper soft kisses all over Martin’s face, his cheeks and eyelids and nose, covering him with constellations of affection to match his freckles. He pauses his delicate little pecks and plants a kiss square on Martin’s lips before casually adding, “If you want.”

“Of course I do,” Martin replies, rolling his eyes fondly. He leans forward to give Jon a matching kiss, firm and solid, and then sighs when Jon melts into him and deepens the kiss. 

That sigh turns into a gasp as Jon shifts against him, pulling up to get a better angle, and licks into Martin’s mouth, hot and insistent. Martin hums pleasantly and accepts Jon’s wandering tongue, his eyes fluttering shut, letting his hands travel up Jon’s back to his shoulderblades, fingers kneading his skin and sparse muscle in some sort of rhythmic echo of Jon’s lips moving on his.

The arms wrapped around Martin’s neck tighten, Jon leaning into him with all his weight and crossing his forearms behind Martin’s head. Martin lets out a soft groan at the thought that Jon can probably _feel_ his heart trying to beat out of his chest, close as they are, bare skin pressed against bare skin like this.

When Jon pulls back, it’s only to kiss a sloppy trail from the corner of Martin’s mouth down his cheek to his jaw, eager little whimpers escaping him with each wet touch to Martin’s skin. He moves to tangle his fingers in Martin’s hair, cradling the back of his head, and then grazes his teeth over Martin’s pulse point, grinning against his throat when he feels the responding shiver go through Martin’s body.

Eventually Jon lifts his head fully to look at Martin’s face, though Martin doesn’t meet his gaze. Jon has beautiful dark eyes that Martin could easily spend hours staring into, were it not for the brilliant smile on his face, lighting him up in a way Martin’s never seen before. In fact, he’s not sure _anyone_ has ever seen Jon smile like this – not that he wants to presume his own importance, just that it really feels like a once-in-a-lifetime experience, getting to see him like this.

Jon has _dimples,_ is the thing. He’s beaming so brightly, his teeth imperfect but gorgeous, his lips swollen and wet, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and those fucking dimples, which Martin fears he may be imagining. He has to blink a few times to be sure, but they’re definitely there, and they’re definitely amazing. 

Martin manages to eventually tear his eyes away from Jon’s smile to look at his eyes, finding them glinting with blissful fervor and just a hint of mischief. He opens his mouth to say something about it, or just to tell Jon how beautiful he is, but at that moment Jon apparently decides he’s done looking adoringly at Martin and would really like to get back to the kissing.

It’s a good idea in theory, only the way he goes about that is by tilting his head and diving in to kiss the sensitive spot right behind Martin’s ear, delighting in the strangled noise that claws its way out of Martin’s throat. He noses up from there, pressing a quick kiss to the shell of Martin’s ear before taking the earlobe between his teeth, tugging gently and sucking at the same time.

Martin groans wretchedly and squirms a bit, hyper aware of where Jon’s body is in relation to his. _“Jon,”_ he protests, voice rough and breathless. “Jon, I’m way too wiped out to even _think_ about having this conversation right now.”

Jon breaks himself away from his task and looks at Martin without remorse, smiling in satisfaction, but no longer with that wicked gleam in his eye that says he’s planning on misbehaving. He leans in slowly, eyes roving between Martin’s eyes and his mouth, and kisses him, deep and warm and tender. "Alright,” he whispers as he pulls back, “sorry. Now we can sleep." 

With that, he twists around to press his back to Martin’s chest, and Martin shifts slightly to accommodate the changed position, to lie down on his side and wrap his arms around Jon’s chest. Once they’re somewhat settled, Jon stretches his leg behind him, hooks a foot around Martin’s ankle and pulls it up so their legs are intertwined a tad awkwardly, but not uncomfortably. 

The movement has the inadvertent effect of pushing Jon’s ass back against Martin’s pelvis; the fact that he wiggles a bit as he makes himself comfortable in Martin’s arms is not inadvertent at all. Martin inhales sharply and buries his face in Jon’s hair, nosing into the crook of his neck to stifle a helpless whimper. 

Jon huffs out a soft breath and resists the urge to properly, deliberately grind back against him. "Sorry, sorry,” he murmurs, though he sounds at least as proud of himself as he is contrite. “We'll talk tomorrow."

"Yeah," says Martin, valiantly trying to tamp down thoughts of how that conversation might go. He’s already got a situation going on here, and the last thing he needs is to overthink it until it becomes a real problem and he has to get up and deal with it so it doesn’t take care of itself while he sleeps. No, best to keep it under control, he thinks, and the only way to do that is by persistently ignoring it.

"Goodnight, Jon,” he sighs at length, lips brushing against Jon’s hair. “I love you."

Still blushing and breathless, Jon takes one last opportunity to lift Martin’s hand to his face and bestow a series of soft kisses on his knuckles. Martin’s skin is warm against his in every place they touch, a lovely, comfortable pressure. It feels safe, secure, familiar, right. It feels like the only way to sleep, the only way to exist, and Jon wonders how he could possibly have gone so long without this.

“Goodnight, Martin,” he murmurs, content and half asleep. “I love you.”


End file.
